


Your Man on the Road, He Doin' Promo

by musiclily88, sweet_disposition



Series: You Wanted My Heart But I Just Liked Your Tattoos [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Hurt, Idiots in Love, Lyric Inspired, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Revenge Sex, Substance Abuse, The Weeknd, Zayn Leaves One Direction, angry boys, they both stupid lil shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_disposition/pseuds/sweet_disposition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam doesn't even know how to find Zayn's house anymore, doesn't know his way through the Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Man on the Road, He Doin' Promo

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, pretties. We listened to “The Hills” by The Weeknd and decided to ruin your lives. Enjoy!
> 
> No, we don't actually think Zayn is a drug addict. We like the song and feel it fits with part of the ziam narrative.
> 
> I.e., this is fake. Really fake. It's fiction.

Liam smells like second-hand smoke and first-hand smoke, and fuck the life out of him if he isn’t driving down Rodeo at four in the morning. He should be exhausted—lord knows Sophia and her mate Michelle are, having passed clean out in the California King in Liam’s hotel room. And shouldn’t Liam feel like a California king right now—isn’t a threeway with two hot women supposed to be some crowning achievement on a bloke’s checklist?

Instead he’s chasing something, some ghost he hasn’t seen in awhile. Except, part of him thinks Zayn was a ghost long before he left the band, just a wisp of a thing, all tattoos and eyeliner and blunts. Plus lines and lines and lines of coke.

The coke was everyone’s downfall, really, everyone but Perrie who got out early. Got out with a sardonic smile and a murmured _I was never really your first choice, babe, can’t you see?_ that left Zayn listless. The coke at least woke him up a bit, made him manic and beautiful and shiny—but he refused to listen to anyone who asked him to pull himself back in, not to riot so hard. He didn’t listen to his boys and he didn’t listen to Liam.

That led to late arrivals and high arrivals and Zayn checking out of life like it was his job—when really his job was being in a band, was being committed to his fans, was actually giving a shit. They held interventions, one after another, until a seething Louis had enough.

Eventually, someone had to have enough.

He unceremoniously met with the rest of the boys, working to draft an ultimatum, a game plan. Niall refused to confront Zayn, as it wasn’t really his wheelhouse to force tough love. Harry sighed and said he would support whatever everyone else had to say. Liam balked. And so it fell to Louis to confront Zayn, to tell him it was rehab or nothing.

 

Zayn was, apparently, more than happy with nothing.

 

Liam eventually pulls up to the _nothing_ that Zayn is living with, a multi-storey mansion in Beverly Hills, not so far from the prying eyes he once claimed to hate so much.

He likely shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be idling behind the wheel of a pretty little sports car, having followed coordinates on his mobile like a fool, because this is the first time in his life he doesn’t actually know where Zayn lives. The place is gated—like Zayn, lately, Liam snorts to himself—and he has to buzz himself in.

Liam heads up the bricked driveway, parking by a long row of hedges while simultaneously questioning his life choices. 

He leaves his phone in his car. He doesn’t really need a reality check right now, not from anyone.

The front door’s unlocked, as it was supposed to be, and he lets himself in. He cranes his head up—can’t help it, when the foyer’s gigantic and ridiculous and covered in gilt—and he heads towards the back of the house, aiming for the kitchen.

Liam needs a fucking drink.

He finds a curved bar in one of the side rooms and helps himself to three fingers of vodka, pulling a bottle of beer from the fridge below the counter. Then he goes in search of Zayn, silent and holding his breath.

He left his phone in the car for a reason, because he doesn’t want Soph’s chiding words or Louis’ fury, and he doesn’t want to look at the texts from Zayn, inviting him over like nothing’s wrong.

He heads downstairs, because Zayn said he was working in his studio, toying with some new tracks with his team. The evidence speaks otherwise, as there’s a bong on the basement stairs and a red high-heel at the bottom of the landing.

Not that Liam’s surprised.

He is surprised the place is deserted, though—like Zayn sent everyone home or something, like he’s ashamed.

Liam’s skin, it feels like it catches fire. He necks three slurps of the vodka and eyes the beer. 

“Hey.”

His head snaps up and he spots Zayn for the—the first time in months, fuck. He’s sprawled on a sofa, the very picture of ease and wealth, tight jeans and hooded eyes. The booth behind him is empty, but the lights are on. Liam doubts it’s been used much, as he notes that Zayn’s basement is covered in, like, shit. Two hookahs, countless half-filled beer bottles, tumblers of liquor, at least five lighters, crumpled cigarette packets, cashed blunts in ashtrays and— 

“Still on the white, I see,” Liam says on a sigh, rolling his eyes. He finishes his vodka and sits on the couch opposite Zayn, continuing to survey the room.

“S’not mine,” Zayn claims, shrugging, looking at the baggie on his coffee table. “Friend brought it, left it behind, that’s all.”

“Bullshit.”

Zayn blinks slowly. His pupils are huge, as usual. “Believe what you want.”

“Can’t do that. Not anymore.”

At that, Zayn stands, slow and deliberate, moving forward like a cat. Liam takes a breath before finishing the rest of his vodka. He cracks open the beer just as Zayn reaches him. “This for me?”

“Wasn’t gonna be.”

“Rude.”

Liam snorts. “Coming from you, must mean something. Seems you played the good host. No?”

Zayn shrugs again.

“Until you kicked them out.” Liam hums, spreading his legs wider, looking at Zayn from beneath his eyelashes. “Dead rude.”

“You’re the one who texted me out the blue, mate. If you came over just to give me shit, you’re free to leave. Reckon you spotted the front door.” 

Liam looks at Zayn dead-on. “And you’re the one who invited me over. And you know why I’m here.”

“Do I though?”

He surges to standing. “You fucking do. How about a little closure, yeah? You’re such a prick, aren’t you? I never even got a fucking good-bye.”

Zayn chuckles blithely, like it’s all a joke. “Not like you even noticed me when I was around, innit? Had your girl, didn’t you?”

“Me?” Liam scoffs. “I didn’t notice you? You didn’t notice anything. You were high all the time! I could have been a post or a hole in the wall for all you spoke to me.”

“Like you came to me, like you spoke to me, like you stood up for me when everyone came in with their guns blazing, ready to kick me out.” Zayn pokes one finger into Liam’s chest.

“That’s not even what this is about, Christ.” He gives in first, as always, and sits back down.

“Well clue me in, because it’s clearly about something. Let the festering wound heal so you can be on your way.” Zayn shrugs, walking back around the table to sit in his former spot.

“Ah. That’s how it’s going to be, then.”

“What, like I’m going to let you in here to dictate my feelings? I think we played that game long enough, really.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t get to toy me around for a year, get me to love you, get me to adore you, and then kick me out of the band and break up with me _at the same time.”_

Liam licks his lips. “I never broke up with you. That’s the thing.”

“What?”

“I called. Fuck, I called for a month. You didn’t answer, you didn’t do anything. I got nothing. Not a smoke signal, no carrier pigeon.”

“It was implied,” Zayn responds slowly, sounding like he has marbles under his tongue. “You and the lads are a package, innit, if they don’t want me around, what am I to think?”

“You long ago needed to stop putting goddamn words in my mouth, you little shit.”

“What am I to think?” Zayn repeats.

“That I’m still in love with you!”

With this, Zayn throws his head back and laughs. “You never.”

“Then explain. Why else would I be here?”

“A dirty fuck, as per.”

Liam nearly tosses the beer at Zayn’s smug face. His face, with its bit of stubble, its under-eye circles, its lips that probably taste like smoke. Liam still loves him. “I just, literally just, fucked two girls and couldn’t think of anything but you, all right? And how fucked up is that, right, that you’re on my mind even though you fucking broke my heart, you nearly fucking killed me. Hell, you nearly fucking killed yourself, actually, with all the shit going in your mouth and up your nose, let’s call it what it is. And you’re still on it, still going strong being a goddamn asshole. Nothing’s different.”

“You’re different,” Zayn replies, face shutting down. His under-eye circles get darker as he tips his head forward, setting his elbows onto his thighs.

“You’re damn right,” Liam snarls. He chugs down half the beer, knowing full well he’s being dramatic, but he supposes the situation calls for it, if any one does. And of a sudden he’s too overwhelmed, can’t continue this line of conversation, can’t handle feeling such anger and stupid love for Zayn. So he backs off. “Well. Anyway. How’s the music coming along, then? Got this nice studio in your basement and all. Hope you’re fulfilling its potential.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at Liam as if gauging his sincerity. He inhales sharply and stands, licking his lips. “Sure, yeah. Good. You can listen.” He stalks away and into the booth, with all the bright lights the rest of his basement doesn’t have.

Surprising that drug addicts don’t appreciate harsh lighting, Liam thinks. He finishes off his beer and sets it on the table, looking closer at the items littered there. There’s a lit candle amongst the other shit, spewing out cinnamon fumes that Liam likes just a bit. He won’t admit it. He’s admitted enough things tonight, really, on the whole.

He sighs, again, knowing it’ll be a pattern for this evening. Morning.

He re-lights the hookah, working at the coals until they’re glowing just a bit. He gets a waft of mint, and he thinks maybe Zayn remembered it’s his favourite. Or just. Maybe Zayn’s friends like it.

Zayn cues up his song and it’s—soulful, of course, R&B inspired, like they always talked about when anyone mentioned solo careers. It’s about missed connections and failed attempts, and Liam’s fuming but touched in a way, because somehow Zayn’s song has said more than Zayn himself has ever been able to communicate—about love and loss and white-hot anger. The song is lovely just like most things Zayn creates, and Liam listens intently, sucking on the end of the hookah.

Because it’s about him, really, the same way many of their actions lately have been. Liam throwing himself into his relationship with Soph was probably about Zayn, in some ways. Zayn’s twitter fight with Louis was surely fueled by their own friendship and Louis’ feelings of betrayal, but—what if it was also about Liam? What if it was about Zayn feeling abandoned?

Instead of thinking about it, Liam detaches from the hookah and blows out the candle, listening to the music and pretending to be indifferent. Indifference doesn’t look great on him, really. Or maybe it doesn’t register, because he’s earnest above anything. He’s earnest and emotionally constipated and he has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s still seated, deep in not-thought, when Zayn leaves the bright little booth, looking strangely shy. Zayn’s often shy, but that’s usually in big groups and with people he hates, not with—not with Liam.

“What do you think?” Zayn asks, one hand worrying at the other, wringing his hands like a spinster.

Liam stands, slowly, so as not to spook Zayn. He inhales a fortifying breath, or something like it, smoke still stale in his lungs. “What do I think?”

“Yeah.” He’s worrying his hands and himself and Liam can’t stand for that, not anymore. He takes his turn to stalk towards Zayn as soon as he rounds his way into the room proper, looking solemn.

Liam can’t think. That’s the real thing, he just can’t think. So he acts, acts like a fool, maybe, but he at least _acts._ “I hate you, a bit.”

He walks to Zayn, steady-like, and he licks his lips, just the once. Then he knocks his hands against Zayn’s shoulders, shoving him into the wall, before he plants their lips together. Zayn doesn’t seem to be able to respond, hasn’t moved on his own since Liam said he hated him, but he goes pliable. Pliable is something Liam can work with.

His hand snakes towards Zayn’s too-tight jeans, searching for the fly. Eventually he finds it and flicks it open, shoving his way into Zayn’s private space. He has no idea if this is okay, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t give a shit.

No, wait. He definitely doesn’t give a shit.

He wraps a firm hand around the base of Zayn’s half-hard cock, twisting a bit as he works it, just like he knows how. He mouths against Zayn’s neck, looking to leave a mark for once.

He didn’t used to be able to leave marks very often. If nothing else, Louis would admonish him. At worst, management gave him fiery glances and stern talking-tos, threatening his contract.

He supposes his contract is more under his own discretion, now. That’s something, anyway.

He pumps at Zayn with vigour, working to make the mark stick around. He wants to bruise Zayn, to make their hurt somehow tangible. He lets Zayn dick into his hand for a few minutes, their breath going ragged and hot and wordless.

And then Liam sinks to his knees.

Zayn gasps at this, throwing his head back so hard it knocks against the wall audibly. Liam would laugh, if something about this were actually funny. Instead he bears down, opening up his throat without warning, willing Zayn to lose control around him.

He’s learned a couple things since Zayn left, and he might want to make that hurt too, like the bruises and the hot liquor and the sting of smoke and coke. He purses his lips to cup around Zayn’s cock, forming a tight ring just like he used to. And that’s it, that’s Zayn coming, hot down Liam’s pliant throat.

He’s always been good with pliant.

Zayn immediately sinks down, sliding against the wall until he’s seated. He and Liam look eye-to-eye, both of them breathing hard.

“Unexpected?” Liam asks, the only one still fully dressed of the two of them.

“Not entirely.”

“Good lad.” Liam licks his lips.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” Zayn asks, chest heaving still. “Or is that—”

“Yes. That.”

“Right.”

They traipse up the stairs, two sets of them, with Zayn’s hand heavy and tight on top of Liam’s. The bedroom door’s already open, and the bed is huge and actually, like, made. 

So Zayn hasn’t fucked in it within the last hour, give or take.

Zayn drags Liam into a hot kiss, open-mouthed and wild. They gravitate to the bed, Zayn fingering at Liam’s jeans, working them open and shucking them off along with his boxer-briefs. They’re still wearing their tops, which isn’t the most ridiculous part of this scenario, but it makes Liam laugh. Maybe the vodka’s hit him.

“What?” Zayn asks.

“We’re both still, like. Dressed.” He snickers again, settling his face into Zayn’s shoulder.

“Then let’s not be,” Zayn says with a shrug.

They separate, undressing and watching one another. Liam, for his part, eyes Zayn suspiciously, but he also admires the planes of Zayn’s muscles and his golden skin and his—well, his pert nipples and his dick, neither of which flagged much, even though Zayn just came.

“Missed this, ‘n you,” Liam admits, the best he’s going to be with words right now, when all his blood is in his cock. And really, his cock is pressed up against his abs, insistent and almost angry.

“Me? Me too,” Zayn breathes out, re-attaching himself to Liam, tonguing against his jawbone. “Babe, will—will you fuck me? Please? Need it.”

The breath goes right out of Liam, if he had any in awhile, really. But he still manages to say, “Yes, yeah, sure,” and he watches Zayn rummage through a nightstand for lube and—and condoms.

Because they need condoms again.

Liam feels like he’s been kneed in the dick—although his dick doesn’t show it, is still flying high—but emotionally. He orients, zones in on the strip of condoms and sighs. Again with the sighing.

He considers playing it off, but doubts he can manage it. Instead he just nods, holding one hand out, giving Zayn another appreciative once-over. Zayn hands him the lube and condoms, not at all chagrined.

Liam’s not sure if he’s angry or hurt.

Instead of thinking about it, he shoves Zayn onto the bed. Zayn tips backwards, huffing out in surprise.

“Turn over,” Liam demands, hearing himself be harsh. He thinks he likes it.

Zayn rolls his eyes but hums, flipping over. He sets his legs wide, opening himself up just beautifully. He’s clean, not just washed but waxed too, and Liam bitterly wonders who he’s maintaining himself for.

Liam drops the condoms beside Zayn and quickly lubes up his fingers, more than one at a time, predicting this will be quick-quick and dirty. 

He hopes he’ll be wrong.

Liam presses a fingertip against Zayn, and a cruel feeling comes over him. “Who you doing this for, eh? You’re all tidy back here, babe. That must mean something for someone.”

Zayn writhes a bit, shoving back onto Liam’s hand before pressing himself into the bedspread. “Not really.” He sighs dreamily, pillowing his arms beneath his head. “Maybe I like it this way. Or maybe I was hoping.”

Liam stills.

“Guess you’ll never know,” Zayn bites out, fucking back hard onto Liam’s finger. In retaliation or reward, Liam adds another lubed finger to Zayn’s arse. “Not like you’ve been around, eh? Been fucking your bitches, been having your fun. Like you’re the only one allowed to pull. Please,” he scoffs.

“Fuck you,” Liam grinds out, adding another finger.

“And aren’t you about to? Please. You’re gagging for this,” Zayn says, and there’s a smirk hot in his voice.

Liam’s cock pulses with it, so much so that he doesn’t respond before ripping open a packet and slipping on a condom. He slides into Zayn without warning, figuring their revenge involves this sort of consensual-if-angry play, and he listens with satisfaction as Zayn groans loudly.

“Be loud for me, baby,” Liam murmurs, bottoming out.

“Not your baby,” Zayn counters, bucking backwards, startling Liam. Then he thrusts forward, pressing himself into the bedspread, working himself over a bit. He moves his hands so they’re beneath him, one levering himself up to breathe, the other touching himself.

“You’re my something,” Liam insists, working himself back and forth slowly.

“Fuck you,” is the response, which—fair enough.

Rather than respond, Liam decides to snap his hips and fuck Zayn proper, to piston into him like maybe they’re both dying. They both, both keen when he does that, their voices awkward and stupid.

Liam starts to feel his orgasm building, gets a hot feeling low in his gut, which just makes him fuck into Zayn faster. Zayn drops down a bit, presses his forehead onto the bedspread as he works himself over. It’s not hard to pretend this is them before anything bad happened, before they broke each other’s hearts. It’s not hard to slip backwards, just a bit, to that short window of time when things were easy.

He forgets it again in one moment, can only focus on the hot feeling of Zayn surrounding him. He drops down too, setting his forehead against Zayn’s shoulderblade, levering in and out with purpose.

Miraculously, they start to come at the same time, Liam spilling hot into the condom while Zayn fists himself onto the bed beneath them. They groan out into the quiet room, sticking together with sweat and something unspoken.

It’s Zayn who separates them, pushing against Liam’s stomach so he backs off. Liam slips out slowly, keeping a gentle grip on the base of the condom. He removes it and ties it off, tossing it somewhere near the bin across the room. Not really his priority right now.

Zayn flops onto his back, away from the wet spot of his own come. Liam knee-walks up to cuddle into his side, which once again feels familiar. It hurts a bit, during the come-down, to feel so familiar to Zayn’s body.

They stay silent for awhile, letting their breaths sync up to one another.

And then Liam has to give in and ruin it, just like he knew he was going to. “You’re not really going to release that song, are you?”

Zayn audibly swallows. “It’s that bad, then.”

“No, it’s—just that it’s about _me.”_

Zayn snorts. “What, don’t want everyone knowing what you’re actually about, is that it?”

“Fuck, whatever. I just thought _you_ wouldn’t want that. Christ, you’ve done your very best to separate yourself from us, haven’t you? Thought you’d want to keep that up, that you don’t want me. That you never did.”

“I always want you. I need you.” Zayn sounds—hurt. 

This is the first sign of vulnerability Liam’s seen all night, and it comes at five in the fucking morning.

“I need you too,” Liam admits sadly, saying yet another thing he wishes he couldn’t. But he has to, has to make at least a last-ditch effort to keep Zayn close. They’ve been too far apart for too long, and it’s done them both wrong.

“Yeah. I know.”

“You should, like—you need to get better.”

Zayn pulls away, sits up with his elbow beneath him. “I’m not going to fucking rehab. I thought I made that clear.”

“You need it!”

“No I don’t! I’m fine, and I’m not proving anyone right, I’m not going down that road. Fuck that.” Zayn shoves Liam away and gets off the bed, moving to the bathroom. Liam has no choice but to follow.

“I don’t get it,” Liam says slowly, giving Zayn space by staying in the doorway.

“I’m not going. It’s what they expect of me. I’m not doing it.”

And they’re still naked, but this is a new height for vulnerability, once again, Zayn standing in the middle of his bathroom, face red and chest heaving. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, really. That’s like a new level of pretentious and pathetic and—”

Zayn rounds on him, stalking closer to shove him against the doorframe. “Don’t you dare call me pathetic. Fuck you.”

“You’re just angry because you know! You agree that it’s stupid not to get help just because, what, the tabs think it might be a good idea too?”

“I’m not proving anyone right about me.” Zayn gives him another shove and moves around him, back into the bedroom.

Liam watches him grab a dressing gown, sighs to himself yet again, and follows Zayn out of the room. He grabs a throw blanket and wraps it around his waist, although that’s almost worse than being totally naked. Still. It’s something.

He follows Zayn downstairs, past rooms and more rooms, all empty and quiet and eerie. They stalk their way into a side living room, where Zayn finds an abandoned bottle of tequila and pulls straight from it. Liam watches, on-guard.

He gives in again. Liam has habits. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s much left to talk out.” Zayn shrugs, sitting the tequila bottle against his hip, the silky dressing gown covering him in unfair ways. “I’m not doing it, you want me to do it, I’m not in the band anymore so you’ve got no leverage. Game over.”

“No leverage?” Liam responds, incredulous, face heating up. “Being in love with you means nothing, then. My hope for you to get better means nothing.”

“I’m fine the way I am! I’m not wrecked, it’s not like I’ve, what, got track marks and hookers littering the place. You’re just mad I chose a career that no longer includes you! You wanted me to invest in you in every way, and you can’t stand that I’m okay with space!”

“What, just because I wanted to be exclusive you think that means I want to own you? That I’m smothering your goddamn creativity, really? When the very first song you wrote is, look at that, about me.”

“It’s about how I’m fucking mad at you. Yeah. Because I finally had the chance to go there, without living in your pocket.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, stop—I mean, wait. I’m fine enough without you, but I want you anyway. But I need you not to, like, pull this bullshit. You can’t look over my shoulder without making me paranoid, and weed does that enough, yeah?”

“Then maybe stop smoking.”

Zayn shakes his head, but not in disagreement. It’s something more resigned than that. “I love you, but sometimes I don’t like you. You don’t get to always be right here, you know. I haven’t done that much wrong. Not really.”

Liam swipes a hand across his eyes. “I hate you so much sometimes.”

“Yeah. And yet here you are.”

“Here I certainly am.”

 

And that’s nothing like a promise or a pact. It’s just nothing wholesale, it’s a stalemate, it’s being too in love to let go and being too angry to stay ducked in close. There’s too much history and hurt, along with way too much unsaid. And maybe that’s as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment your hearts out. Tell us how we've hurt you.
> 
> Our tumblrs:
> 
> main tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint
> 
> main tumblr: chicagocuppycake  
> fandomtumblr: lilmisscraic


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